


The Tormented Mr. Eames

by grizzly_bear_bane



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Adopted Siblings, Alternate Universe - 1950s, F/M, Haunting, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Murder, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5121539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames hates sharing. </p><p>He will kill to make sure that he doesn't have it.</p><p>  <em>Loosely inspired by Patricia Highsmith's The Talented Mr. Ripley</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tormented Mr. Eames

**Author's Note:**

> SO I'VE BEEN MISSING IN ACTION FOR A SUPER LONG TIME! @_@ BUT I'M BACK.
> 
> WITH THIS LAST-MINUTE, SUPER-LATE HALLOWEEN FIC! #_#
> 
> Special thanks to tamat9, who stayed up to 9am this morning to help me with this. AND THE SURPRISED ME WITH ART FOR IT! GUH LOVE YOU! XC Eternally grateful and as always completely undeserving of that magnitude of care. T_T
> 
> I'm super nervous about this fic. It's... a lot, after a hiatus, so I apologize if it's rubbish. Comments, critiques, and questions are much needed and much appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy! (I hope! D:)
> 
> And Happy Halloween, Everybody!

++

+

 

**Monaco, 1955**

 

Eames smiled when he saw Mallorie's shining convertible drive up the busy street nearest to the alley.

“You may not be my blood, but you ought to be to drive a thing like that in this part of town,”  he teased, his charming smile catching eyes from the women and more than a few men who passed by.

The air was crisp coming in from the Mediterranean. It played with Mallorie's short curls, her cream-colored skirt, and the red blouse she wore. Her heels clicked on the pavement as she hurried to him, past gambling men who drank her down faster than the spirits on their rickety dice table. “Uncle Edward told me where to find you.”

Behind sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, she kissed his cheeks. The young girl who used to visit in the late summers was gone and in her place, stood a worldly woman. She squeezed his shoulders, her eyes so shockingly vibrant beyond her sunglasses. “Your father was right.” She looked around them, catching the sun on her bare collar and shoulders. “This is no place for a gentleman.”

“Or a brand new Mercedes and the doll driving it. It’s got to be the flashiest car in all of Monte-Carlo, love,” he muttered into her hair, his hand still grasping her waist as they laughed together. “Grace Kelly would be put to shame and sent straight out to pasture at the sight of you. Wherever did you land one of these things?”

“A gift for my engagement.” She gave him a private smile before she extended her hand at his arched brow, showing off her ring. “Dominic and I drove all over Provence in it yesterday. He wanted to see the countryside and my childhood home.”

He huffed, letting her feel the make of his jacket. “Still hoping your Yankee toad will turn into a dashing prince if you keep kissing him hard enough?”

Mal tutted. “You will eat those words once you meet him.” She sighed, looking him over, shaking her head. “Hard to believe how much time has passed since we last saw each other.”

“Six years,” he mused, opening the car door for her.

“We were all still practically children then, no?” Her eyes swept over him before she started the engine.

“You and Arthur, yes. But I was already breaking hearts not long after father adopted him. It was, I believe, right around the time your mother finally gave up on teaching my poor father French.” He ran his hand over the smooth interiors. “Damn, I love this car.”

Her pearls caught the end of one curl but she hardly noticed as she eyed him, her fine brow arching in jest. “Is that not your Mercedes parked in front of the stables?”

“Yes,” he answered softly, reaching across to free that lock of hair. Her soft neck was slightly tanned. He traced his fingers along her pearls. “But not in this color, dear.”

She laughed, shouldering him off. “You spoiled boy and your toys. Just as I remember you. Oh, Eames, just wait until you see your brother. Not the same delicate boy we all doted on. University looks good on him.”

He forgot about the car. “He’s here already?”

“He and Dom made the trip together from New York. He…”

Eames glanced at her when she didn’t finish. “Yes?”

Her eyes stayed planted on the road. “He’s brought a friend with him,” she stated at last, a smile playing at her lips for a moment. “A very charming boy.”

“A boy?” He frowned. Mal was never one for such vagueness. “What sort of boy?”

“A very charming one,” she stressed again, softly. “They study at Princeton together. His family is very well off. You’ll like him.”

“Impossible.”  

“ _Eames_ ,” she eyed him, her voice a plea as if she were bargaining with an unruly child, “please don’t run this one off. Arthur hardly forgave you for it the last time.”

“That last one was a scoundrel!”

“He was a talented musician from an Italian jazz band! You and he shared records!”

“Before I knew he was buggering my baby brother, yes.”

She sighed, like her mother, but relented with the ease of her father. “I know you’ll like Robert once you see how sweet he is with Arthur.”

Eames sighed, his chest tight with irritation. It boggled the mind that his father— _his_ father—would entertain such in his house, but then again, it was Arthur. If not for Eames, Arthur would be spoiled rotten by now. Six years, Mal and Arthur to private schools and universities abroad, and Eames off of his African trek, and already it was clear that his leaving had turned his family into one he feared he would not recognized.

They passed through fields rich with rows of lavender and sunflowers near the vinegars, up and down rolling hills and the old farming roads, tiptoeing on the edge of the Alps towards his father’s villa in Mane.

“What sort of boy would you like to see him with, then?” Mallorie asked after a while. “A gentleman in school, or an artist perhaps… or perhaps even _you_ ,” she teased, “a heartbreaker who hides away in Monaco the moment his family and his oldest friend come to stay for a holiday?”

He snorted, earning a scowl. “None. He might be a young man now, but he’s still _my_ baby brother.”

“Listen to you. Look at that pout,” she teased, stroking his smooth chin and cheek. “From the moment he was brought home, you’ve hoarded him, I’m certain.” She chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll love that his American accent has returned too.”

She laughed in his unhappy face.

+

 

The villa was a chateau turned into a summer home; an old stone thing, older than their families, even. The Eames and the Miles patriarchs had deep, strong British roots and yet somehow, they’d found this old marvel and made a country home out of it for three generations now. Stables flanked the west side of the land and to the east, their own plush lavender fields, the vines, the orchards, all sloping downhill, and behind the manor itself lay a maze the gardeners changed every season.

The sun was setting by the time Mallorie’s car turned onto the driveway, its gravel track lined with tall Mediterranean cypresses. She circle the impressive fountain and parked on the shore of the manor’s high, stone steps.

Her guy came sauntering out through the open double doors, with messy sand colored hair and a suit that was much too large and far too plain.

But by the look of Mallorie, he could have been James Dean or Marlon Brando. “How’d the car do, babe? Any trouble?”

And she, who spent most of their drive humming little quaint tunes and an Edith Piaf number, could have been Bacall, Russell, Monroe for the sensuality that blossomed in her hips and her stride up those steps. As if she weren’t a Miles at all, but an Eames, for neither her mother nor her father had ever carried such presence and grace. “It was wonderful. Monaco is exquisite this time of year, and all along the coast.”

“We'll have to take a family trip then, huh?”

Eames chuckled, “You wouldn't last a day with those empty pockets.“

Cobb arched his brow, glancing at Mallorie. “Is that so?”

“Come and meet the infamous Edward Eames Jr.,” Mal interjected, kissing his cheek before taking his hand. She turned back to Eames with a silent plea to play nice.

Cobb nodded at him curtly, his hands on Mallorie's waist. “Edward.”

Eames forced a smile to cover his glare as he moved to shake Cobb’s hand, feeling little of any strength in those bones. “Just Eames, Mr. Cobb. I insist.”

“Dom, for me as well,” he answered back, squeezing Eames’ hand.

Mallorie’s own covered them both, freeing them from the stalemate Eames wasn’t even sure why he’d started.

Mal surveyed the view of the lands and buildings up the other side of the villa. “Where is everyone?”

“Eames Senior’s showing Miles the wine stores again. They’re planning a trip to Paris,” Cobb answered. “Arthur and his fellow should be wrapping up a rather intense squash match out in the courtyard.”

Eames cut his eye to the opened doors. It would be rude to voice his comments, that he was sure. He took a different route, opting for more ceremonial pleasantries as he smiled, moving past them. “Let's pour some drinks then.”

+

 

Cobb was boring at worst and bland at best. His only saving grace would have been his war stories—

“Went in a scared little boy of sixteen and came out a scared larger boy by the end.”

—had Eames been the sort to find any interests in the uninspired boastings of other men.

He sat in his cozy sofa lazily turning his near empty glass of Brandy on the chair arm. He watched Cobb slowly pace as if moving about like a salesman on a platform was critical for jogging his memory, and watched Mallorie as well, how she lounged on the fainting couch toying with the hem of her skirt, her eyes focused on her wheat stalk of a fiancé. There was no doubt she’d heard his stories before, perhaps a hundred times, and yet she still held onto every word from his lips, unseeing of his plainness and old clothes. Only a soldier paced in the middle of Eames’ parlor rug, his tales more intriguing to Mallorie than Eames’ wanderlusts had been simply because Cobb’s were war stories. The sort of thing normal, boring people held with in high regard.

It occurred to Eames then that he didn't know Mallorie at all, it felt. Indeed, six years had been plenty for them to both grow into comfortable strangers with one another. Perhaps she was as plain as her man, maybe even boring as well, though by the look of her, it was doubtful.

“Eames,” she asked, distracting him from his study. She paused, having caught him staring and smiled that little whisper of a smile again. “Perhaps you and Dom might have crossed paths without knowing so. Your father told us you were in Algeria for several months.”

“ _And_ Mongibello,” he nodded, staring at his glass, “ _and_ Naples—”

“Where Arthur’s jazz player lives?” She smiled brighter when Cobb dutifully took her offered glass to refill it.“You know, your father suspects that you must have had a lover with you on your travels, for how little you’ve told him.”

Cobb’s brow rose, easily impressed or just overly polite.

Eames’ jaw clenched. He forced another smile. Oh, the tales he could tell, of months after spent hiding first from Roman investigators and then from Algerian police with the same trouble. And all those broken engagements and games played, before running again, always searching for one thing and finding only more trouble instead.

The door at the far end of the parlor opened, saving him from having to conjure up an answer.

A model of a young man rushed in, all tanned arms and long legs in his tee shirt and shorts, still wiping his face with a towel. “Is Dom telling stories _again_ , Mal?” He paused, his smile growing brighter and bigger like a sunrise, his dimples deep in his cheeks. “Hey!”

Eames stood slowly, unable to feel the floor beneath his feet before Arthur hugged him tightly. He encased Arthur, as he’d always done when they were younger and when Arthur was so slight and awkward and swimming in school uniform, but everything was different now. The way Arthur’s body fit against Eames’ like puzzle pieces, his chin on his shoulder with his height, and the way he felt sturdier, warm and flushed from his sport, the way he smelled, his cologne.

Eames had to hold him at arm’s length, taking a step back. He was speechless.

Arthur laughed, a grown man’s laughter. It rung in Eames’ ears, tingling down his spine.

“Jesus, Eames! Look at you! You’re… big. Big- _ger_.”

“And you… have your accent back,” was all he could stammer.

“Yeah,” Arthur sighed, squeezing Eames’ arms the way that Mallorie had.

Behind Arthur’s back, his friend emerged, joining them in the parlor. He grinned, his eyes on Arthur’s back. “You can blame me for that,” he teased in a Mid-Atlantic fashion that made Eames’ skin crawl.

Arthur’s own smile fell. He and Mallorie were both eyeing Eames with caution, as if expecting him to throw his glass at the boy, toss him out on his ass, and bleach the rug where he’d stood.

“I wrangled Arthur into a four-year theatre program,” Robert was telling him, “in our undergrad. Little did we know it’d be four long years of ‘Wild West’ plays,” he said with exasperation, sighing dramatically as he untied the sweater from around his shoulders, dropping it over the back of Eames’ chair. He plucked up a glass and poured himself a drink.

“Is this Robert?” Eames’ smile was back, pulling Arthur’s from where he’d tucked it behind his nerves.

“Pleasure meeting you. Arthur just _raves_ about his big brother. The Great World Traveler.”

He nearly crushed Robert’s hand when he shook it. “Well, you’re a little thing like Arthur, aren’t you?”

Arthur took Eames’ hands quickly. “Let me show you my apartment and the view. I’ve got pictures. You’d love New York.” He tugged on Eames’ arm. “Eames?”

Eames gave Robert another once-over before he let Arthur drag him to the little couch they used to share that was much too small for them now but still, Arthur sat down and rummaged in the satchel Robert handed him, taking out his glasses and an envelope of photos.

And Eames perched on the chair’s air, unable to shake the feeling that trouble was creeping around the corner again. Robert was watching Arthur from where he stood with Cobb and Mallorie as they admired the Francis Bacon in a cluster of paintings on the wall above the empty fireplace.

Robert studied Arthur the way that Mallorie had with her soldier. "I ought to take more pictures. Arthur, is my camera in your bag?"

"It's upstairs."

Robert raced upstairs as if this were his home, his departure stealing away Arthur’s attention.

Eames pointed his chin at the picture at the top of the stack. “Is that Niagara Falls?”

He had to wait for Arthur to remember that there were other people in the world besides his boy.

Arthur cleared his throat. “It is! Robert and a few our colleagues went there last spring.” He rearranged his photographs on his knee, surprising Eames when he pulled on his arm, making him lean down to whisper softly in Eames’ ear, “Please don’t be a bully. We’re friends, Eames. That’s all.” He shifted in the his seat, sighing.

“ _Me_?” Eames teased, squeezing Arthur’s ear, prompting a blush from those cheeks. He hummed out a little laugh at Arthur’s glare. “ _Never_.”

+

 

Eames was gazing out at the moon’s reflection on the snaking creek just beyond the house from the upstairs balcony. Down below, Cobb leaned against a patio statue laughing as Robert dragged Arthur into yet another dance. His jazz records filled the night sky with music.

He could hear her heels and smell her perfume on the wind. Mallorie joined him, offering Eames one of Cobb’s cigarettes.

She laughed when he inspected it before lighting both of theirs. “You’ve missed him so. Why aren’t you dancing too?”

“I find myself feeling so much like stranger here,” he mused, letting the wind take away the little specks of ash when he tapped the smoke on the stone railing. He propped his cheek on his hand, taking a drag. “You and Arthur seem more of siblings than I do with him. Hell, I feel like a stranger with both of you.”

He turned a little to eye her. She’d taken off her stockings. When, he didn’t know. “I should take you and Arthur to the beach tomorrow.”

She hummed, trying to glare as she wrapped her arms around him, pillowing her head on his back. “And what will Robert and Dom do all day by themselves?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Her hair and skirt were blown against him by the wind. “They would like the beach. And Dom is so pale, poor thing.” She laughed at his growl. “Silly boy,” she whispered, standing on her tiptoes, her lips close to his ear. “You can’t keep us buried in your sandbox away from other children. You have to share us now. And you have to share yourself, too.” She moved sit against the railing in front of him, her hands on her hips. “You’ve been awfully quiet… Who is she?”

He pulled his eyes away from watching Arthur’s hips sway in his tailored trousers. “There is no one.”

“I don’t believe it.” Her eyes narrowed.

That funny expression seized Eames, smothering him with nerves. In an instant, he feared that all of his confusion and strife had voiced itself to her.

But it wasn’t so. “Is it a boy, Eames?” Her voice was so soft and so pleasant, it seemed ethereal to him. “Is that why you’re so protective of Arthur? You know firsthand how hard it can be—“

“Of course not,” he nearly barked at her, moving away a step. He laughed. “ _Me_? Mallorie, please.”

She shrugged. “It’s quite alright, either way.”

“There is only _one_ way for me. You needn’t be so suspicious, darling.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Arthur said, announcing his presence. The look on his face was devastated. He kissed Mallorie’s cheek and glared at him. “Good night, Mal. Eames.”

“Arthur,” Mallory called after him, “I’m sure he didn’t mean…” She looked to Eames to follow him but she gave up, hurrying herself, tutting angrily at Eames.

+

 

That night, Eames lay awake, his mind consumed with so many warring thoughts.

Mallorie. His first and really _only_ true friend, their bond had been as thick as blood.

He felt the same for Arthur. His parents had been French spies, stolen away by Nazis, their baby hidden in the trunk under Eames’ childhood bed. Three years. They’d survived. They took Arthur with them to America to start over, only to die by the hands of robbers not a year later. Arthur was… always like a little lost puppy without a home but he’d been given one here. Why on earth would he want to abandon it for the one place that couldn't guarantee his parents’ safety, let alone his.

Eames could. He always had. He wasn't a bully at all, not really. Mallorie and Arthur both were as his little siblings, and he the brother who protected them, took pride in it.

So… why now were his thoughts so filled with rage, for her _and_ for Arthur?

It hadn't occurred to him before that if Cobb might share Mallorie's bed in the absence of both Miles’ and his own father’s supervision, then Robert too might very well be bold enough to share Arthur's.

Eames left his wing of the manor to roam by the moon's light, in disbelief but still it haunted him. He was loathe to say even in such shadows that he knew enough of the ways in which two men could lie together. He had made a study of it in Mongibello, and Naples, in Algeria, Mombasa, in dark jazz halls, gambling with more than just his father's money…Such men never did well in the light of day, with a girl wrapped in their arms like a shield, or an alibi. Never wealthy, never educated, never… never anything like his darling brother, so why would he bring one here, again, to their home? _He_ , the one paraded around on Robert’s arm the way Cobb did with Mallorie. It sickened Eames.

He touched the silk scarf hanging from Mallorie’s coat pocket on the coat rack outside her door. Cobb's shoes were tucked neatly beside a door several rooms down. A gentleman, indeed, just as she’s said.

Perhaps his mind played tricks on him. Perhaps Arthur had told the truth and he and Robert were in fact only close friends, as Eames and Mallorie were. Perhaps the Phase, as his father had called it, was ending. It didn't put Eames’ mind at ease at all as he wandered up another flight of stairs towards Arthur's wing. Girls could be as dangerous to Arthur as any man could. For all his time at university in the company of young men, Arthur was sheltered from the ways of any young woman hungry for a life like his.

Eames could guide him. He could…

A soft moan drifted from Arthur’s door. The light slipping between the space above the threshold moved and flickered. He saw that it was a candle’s flame when he turned the knob silently, creeping in.

Past Arthur’s parlor and through the opened doors of his dressing room and his bedroom beyond, Eames could see them. Arthur's bare body soaked in the moonlight, lithe and writhing with Robert’s hair in his hands between his legs, until Robert stopped his quick bobbing and moved to cover him. Arthur opened his legs wider, cradling Robert's body above him, holding his hips as Robert began taking him.

Eames stood in the parlor, numb before the wet on his palms startled him. He hurried out into the wall, gritting his teeth in his effort to uncurl his fists. His palms were bleeding.

He stumbled down the stairs, blinded by his rage and the sight of Arthur so debauched, his innocence so readily tossed aside. He couldn't breathe. He covered his ears but was deafened by the memory of those soft sighs and creak of the bed, the rustling sheets, his moans.

He roared, pushing over a statue at the foot of the stairs like a man possessed. It shattered into great chunks of rock, breaking the tiles on the floor.

He found his way back to his rooms, locking the door behind him as servants hurried to the sound of the crash. He sank to the floor, unable to understand or even shake what he felt.

+

 

“Dom wants to wait until we're married,” Mallorie was telling him from the nest of towels they'd made in the sand. They watched Arthur and the others play in the waves. “Which isn’t to say that either of us are virgins. _This_ wish of his, is a new development. And it's a nightmare… Eames, are you listening?”

He couldn’t take his eyes off of Arthur again. He ground his teeth. He snorted. “I doubt there’s much of a difference between having him and losing him. Can a man like Cobb really make someone as fiery as you—”

“ _Eames._ My goodness.” She mocked a old lady clutching imagined pearls before she pursed her lips, her humor deflating out of her with her sigh. “We’re working on that part—or rather, we _were_. Why are women’s bodies so much more complicated than a man’s.”

“Bullocks. It doesn’t take much. Your soldier ought to have learned that eons ago. Red light girls love boys in uniform. They’d have eaten him up.” He watched her lotion her face and neck, and then her arms. “Pity he’s no good… You deserve to be…” he began to mutter as she oiled her bare stomach and legs.

“Hm?” She peered at him over her sunglasses. “You’re sad. Did you apologize to Arthur yet?”

He froze, remembering tan skin and moonlight again, and blood. “What for?”

“You hurt his feelings, with what you’d said last night.”

“He’s in for a world of hurt feelings, Mal. You know that.”

“But not from his brother. He worships you. Try to understand.” She laughed at his scowl, leaning over to kiss his furrowed brow. “You’re too young to be so grumpy and so ridiculously closed-minded. We hardly get to see you. There’s no telling when we’ll be back next.”

He plucked up her bottle and poured lotion on his hands. He rubbed her back, frowning. “You’re leaving? When?”

“Robert wants to take Arthur to Los Angeles, and Dom and I think it might be nice to go as well.”

He paused, looking out at Arthur and Robert splashing Cobb, that tight, sickly feeling stirring in his stomach again, but he swallowed it down.

She glanced back at him, smiling softly. “You _could_ come with us. You could show us all how to really travel. Their schooling doesn’t start again for another month or so…” She took the bottle from him and tossed it into her bag. She turned to face him, taking hold of his cheeks. “We all aren’t so far in age that you no longer can enjoy our company, _I hope_.”

“What do you see in him,” he asked carefully. “What does he do for you, Mal?”

“Oh…” Her brow lifted. “Well… he makes me feel safe, he makes me laugh, he… he’s sweet, but also impossibly stubborn. He inspire me, I feel.”

“How?”

“You know how spoiled I am. He inspires me to look beyond myself, towards a bigger world, full of possibilities. He and Miles simply love each other, as well. They work together at the university now, when Dom and I aren’t swimming in lessons and projects.” She smiled out at him, bright and beautiful.

Eames watched Cobb as well. “I could make you feel those things too, you know?” At her gasp, he chuckled. “You know I picked up a thing or two from those travels.” He wiggles his eyebrows, making her laugh.

“You fool! I’ve missed your silliness.” She sighed, her elbow on her leg, chin on her hand. “You could make some girl so happy, Eames… You just…”

 _Don’t want to_ , her silence supplied. She was right.

“Arthur’s serious about Robert, then?”

She tutted, glaring even as she laughed with exasperation.

Cobb jogged up the sand to them. “What’d I miss?”

“Eames is a man obsessed! Any woman who falls for you will have to fight over your attention constantly!”

Arthur and Robert followed close behind. He collapsed into Mallory’s awaiting arms. He wouldn’t look at Eames, but Eames could hardly look at him either.

He found Robert staring at him. The boy’s smile was smug as he reached into Arthur’s satchel and lit a cigarette for them both. He took a long drag, still holding Eames’ eye. “I don’t blame you. He’s a jewel. _Thank you_.”

Eames frowned. “For what?”

“For scaring away all those leeches.”

That wink he gave Eames, before wrapping his arm around Arthur’s shoulder, it spoke volumes.

He hummed out a laugh, that sickening feeling thick in his throat now. He plucked Robert’s cigarette from his lips, smiling as he teased, “Well, I only wanted the best for my little booger there.”

To everyone’s shock, especially Arthur’s, Eames winked at Robert, grinning. “Don’t fuck it up,” he rumbled, “or I may have to kill you, boy.”

+

 

In the days that followed, Eames’ feeling grew worse, like cement poured down his throat and hardened.

The only thing that seemed to soften it was booze.

“You’re drunk again,” Arthur clipped, standing in the doorway of the greenhouse. “Why are you even in here?”

Eames hushed him, taking his hand to pull him past the rows of planted vegetables and fruits to the far end, where he’d been peeking out of a loose window pane. “Cobb’s attempting to seduce Mal. They come out here nearly every evening. Look.”

Arthur eyed him strangely, as he had been for days now, slowly and hesitantly moving to stand closer, his back to Eames’ chest. Eames’ hands hovered, at last touching Arthur’s arms.

Mallorie was lounging on a chaise, poolside. A martini in one hand and Cobb in the other. They were kissing. Cobb was straddling her lap with his hands up her blouse.

Arthur’s brow rose. “I think we should go back to the house. People deserve their privacy.”

“They’re out in the open. _Anyone_ could see them.”

“Anyone in the greenhouse, so us.”

He squeezed Arthur’s arms, keeping him planted. He leaned close to whisper in his ear, but paused, surprised by his cologne. It was Robert’s. “Cobb doesn’t know how to make her come, I’m certain of it now.”

“Oh, Eames, really?” He shouldered him off. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you…”

“Why am I what?”

Arthur blushed, looking away. He shook his head. “Nothing. You’re drunk. Come on.” He took Eames by the elbow, trying to tug him away from the window with no luck.

“Does Robert kiss you like that? Like he wants to suck your face off? Good God, Cobb’s awful.”

“ _Eames!_ ” Arthur’s blush covered his face now. “Look, I don’t know why you’re acting like this with them, but it’s not right. She’d be horrified if she knew you were… if she knew you were watching her, when she expected privacy, and… and not be… defiled by spying.”

Something in his tone touched a nerve. Eames glanced back at him, seeing hurt and anger in Arthur’s face, and fear. Of Eames himself. “What are you on about, Arthur?”

“I saw you,” he breathed. “You were in my room when… And I know you broke that statue. I saw… blood on it. What did you do? Were you drunk then too? Is this… watching people something you do now?”

Eames leaned against the windows, crossing his arms.

Arthur shook his head. “I… don’t know who you are anymore. You’re…” He sighed, standing straighter, seeming to find his strength somewhere. “I’m going to talk to Mal and Dom. I think you need some time to figure out what’s going on with you. We were supposed to leave in two weeks, but I’d wanted to spend more time with you. And here, all it’s done is… made you worse.”

“So it’s true then? You _are_ leaving? You’re _all_ leaving, then?” Eames took a deep breath, cracking his knuckles. “Oh no, Arthur, you have it backwards. I’m still the same. But _you_ —”

Arthur snapped. “I’m not your property! You can’t control me, and you can’t get rid of Robert! I’ve had it, Eames. _Both_ of us are leaving, unless you get a handle on yourself! You’ve got until the end of the week, or I'm out of here.”

“Arthur, wait. I… I can explain.”

“What?” Arthur hurried to him. “What is it?”

“I want…”

Arthur grabbed his arms. “What, Eames? What do you want?” He frowned. “Is it… Mal?”

Eames cradled Arthur’s face as Arthur's searched his eyes, looking for the truth and finding nothing. “Yes.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, stepping back. “Then talk to her. _Stop drinking for God’s sake_ , and get your head screwed back on your neck. I want my brother back.”

Eames sighed, turning to the window again. He balled his fists. “I don’t want you to leave, Arthur. I don’t trust Cobb, and I sure as hell don’t trust Robert.”

“Why not?”

By now, Cobb had Mallorie’s dressed hiked high. He was kissing her neck. Eames shook his head. “Look at them. How he treats her. I can see it in her eyes, how unsatisfied she is. She won’t ever be happy with him. I know it. He can’t give her what she needs.” The door slammed behind him.

The greenhouse was empty. “Arthur?”

He stormed after, swinging the door open to follow, but Cobb and Mallorie were already there, their clothes and hair still disheveled.

“Arthur? Eames, what have you done _now_? Arthur!” Mallorie hurried after him.

Cobb glared at Eames, his cheeks flushed. “What’s going on with you, pal? You drunk again?”

“Piss off.”

“Whoa!” Cobb reached out to stop Eames from following Arthur as well. He grabbed Eames' wrist. “Hey, why don’t you give to the kid some air for once?”

“For _once_?” Eames laughed, falling back against the greenhouse. He doubled over, Cobb’s hand still on him. He snapped.

Cobb was hit in the cheek. He fell to the grass with a grunt, but was up fast, confusion clear on his reddening face. He blocked Eames’ blows, trying to make him stop, but Eames was out of control now.

From on top of the hill, he heard Mallorie’s scream. “Eames! Stop!”

He punched Cobb in the stomach as she ran back to them, and crashed to the ground with Cobb when she nearly tackled him to pull him off, freeing his jaw to Cobb’s flying elbow.

He pushed away from them, spitting blood on the grass from his bitten tongue.

“Eames, my god!” Mallorie stared at him in shock. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”

He laughed breathlessly, massaging his jaw. “A word of advice, Mr. Cobb. Next time, you just stay the hell out of my business.”

“Eames!” Mallorie cradled Cobb, but in the end he pulled her to her feet himself.

Eames stormed up the stairs, ready to visit his fists on Robert’s pretty face as well, but Mallorie was behind him, her heels echoing up the stone spiral.

His knuckles were aching now, sobering him but only just so. He filled his bathroom sink with water to splash his face.

Mallorie leaned against the doorway, her arms crossed as she seethed.

He toweled his face and turned to her, startled backwards by her hard slap. She followed forward, slapping him again as he righted himself.

“You fool! First you upset Arthur _again_ and then you attack Dom? Why? I demand an answer!”

He laughed still, even as his cheeks stung. “I have none! Other than to say that I find it hilarious that _that’s_ the man you’ve picked to protect you and make you feel safe. Your soldier can’t even protect himself against a drunk ‘fool’!”

She moved to slap him again but he caught her wrist. She yanked her hand away. “Arthur was right. You aren’t at all the boy we loved. You disgust me.”

“Liar.” He caught her wrist again when she turned to leave, pinning her back to the sink. “You love me.”

“ _Loved_ , Eames. _Loved._ ” She hissed through clenched teeth, “But I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“Yes, and every day we’re together, we grow closer and closer with each other in ways we never had before.”

She moaned against his lips, but pulled back, pushing him away. She intended to slap him again, but she grabbed his collar, glaring as she pulled him back to her.

He lifted her by her waist to perch on the sink’s edge, hiking up her dress, moving her legs apart to get between them.

“Eames,” she sighed against his neck, panting as he made quick work of the buttons lining the back of her dress, “we shouldn’t… This is…”

“Everything you need. Everything that _I_ need.” He kissed along her jaw, freeing his length. He groaned at her wetness, pushing inside her roughly.

He held her close, his hand traveling down to thumb at her little nub, making her gasp and moan, rocking with the force of his swinging hips. Her hair fell across his face, caught on his lips, his shuddering breaths tickling at her neck.

“Eames!” He could feel her body clenching at him in waves as she shivered, coming hard, her nails digging into his back.

“Yes,” he sighed, loving the feel of such heat, such closeness. “You see? You need me. I take care of you… I always have… Only I can make you feel… _everything_ … Arthur…” He choked, coming abruptly. “A-Arthur!”

She gasped, horrified as she pushed him away from her. “Arthur?” She stumbled away when he reached for her again, her face paling even as she still carried the flush of sex of her cheeks. “ _Arthur_?”

“No.” He scrambled to his feet, feeling numb. “No. No, Mal, I swear I—”

“All of this time, you…” She sobbed. “Oh my God!” She hurried to redressed, shaking. “Oh my God, you… You were never… even talking to me, about me, or even Dom, were you?”

“Mal, listen to me.” He tried to grab for her again, but she was backing away, out of the bathroom and towards the door to the hall. “Mal—”

“You’re obsessed with him! Eames, he’s your _brother_! How could you—”

“Mal, stop!”

“You’re sick! Oh God.” She flinched away. “You _used_ me—Don’t touch me! You’re disgusting!”

“Mal!” But it was too late. She was gone and there was no point in chasing her with his world crashing down around him. He sat on the edge of his bed, rocking with his head in his hands. He couldn’t believe it.

Only… _why_ he couldn’t, that was a mystery. It had been there all along, ever since that first day, seeing him and then being near him, being blocked from him by that Princeton twit. Mallorie was only that cruel, sick idea manifested into a body that wasn’t his blood or even shared his name. She, with her fondness for him, and her presence, all along he’d seen none of her. Only him. Only Arthur in the moonlight, writhing in passion with a man who wasn’t Eames.

His door burst open with the force. Arthur stood there now, his hands balled into fist. “What did you do to her? Why are her and Dom packing up and saying that they’re leaving right now? What did you do?”

Eames stared at the floor in front of him still, unable to move even as Arthur shook his shoulder.

Arthur huffed, pacing. He turned his back, heaving a heavy sigh. He shook his head. “This is impossible. Whatever happened to you, I… When dad and Miles get back, I’m going to tell him that… Robert and I are leaving too, and that he needs to get you help. It’ll be good for you. Once we’re all gone, you—”

“You’re leaving?”

“ _Yes_ , Eames. You know this. You know I’d leave with her, right this second but I need to talk to dad first. No one feels safe here anymore, not with you being so—”

“No.” He looked up at Arthur, glaring at the frown he was given. He stood slowly, his nails digging into his palms again. “He’s not taking you anywhere.”

“We’re leaving. When you’re well again, maybe all of us might come back, but—”

“ _Might_? So that’s it then?” His eyes narrowed as he approached Arthur. “I lose you to your Princeton brat?”

“What are you talking about, Eames?” He stepped back.

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. He gets to pick you up and take you away forever? And you’re just going to leave me here forever, as if I mean absolutely nothing to you. After I’ve always been there for you, and protected you, and—”

Arthur held up his hands. “Enough. We’re done talking about this. Good night, Eames.”

Eames grabbed him, but Arthur shouldered him off, only for Eames to catch him in his arms again.

“Let go of me!”

“No! You do _not_ get to leave me!” He grunted, kneed in his stomach, but he reached for Arthur once more, ducking from Arthur’s volley of blows. He had to subdue him, to make him stop fighting and listen to Eames’ reasoning.

He forced him back against the wall, knocking over a vase as he covered Arthur’s mouth to keep him from shouting and making another scene and locked his arm around his neck.

Arthur choked, struggling against him. “Eames… stop!”

“Not until you listen to me! Robert is _nothing_ to you,” he stressed, his jaw tight. He hugged Arthur, squeezing him. “ _I’m_ the only person who has ever loved you so entirely. I’m willing to give up everything for you, even my sanity. I’m willing to fight for you. Do you understand? Everything I ever do from this point on, I do entirely for you. But you can’t leave. Not yet, not like this. And you’re right, maybe… maybe something’s wrong with me, but I can’t get better if you let him take you away, Arthur.”

He buried his face in Arthur’s neck, panting as if his heart were seconds away from combusting. He felt lightheaded, drunk but as his words poured from him, a great weight was lifted. He sobbed, squeezing Arthur tighter for a moment just to feel how perfectly he fit in his arms.

“I love you,” he whispered. “You know I always have. And I’m sorry for scaring you. Even I’m afraid, but it’ll be alright. Okay? Arthur?”

He paused. “Arthur?”

Arthur slid to the floor when he released him. Lifeless.

Eames’ blood turned cold. “What? No. N-no. No! Arthur? Oh my God!” He hurried to the floor, checking for his pulse in his neck and wrist. He shook him violently, but still Arthur’s eyes saw nothing as his head lolled back.

Eames’ hands hovered over the bruises covering Arthur’s neck and cheeks. He sobbed, cradling Arthur to himself. “What have I done? This isn’t real. This can’t be real. I… I didn’t do this.” He shook Arthur again. “Arthur? Arthur, please wake up.” He held him in his arms again, in shock. “No,” he repeated over and over, rocking with him. “What have I done… What have I done…”

+

 

The sun was blinding him through his eyelids. He groaned in waking, rolling over on his bed to shy from such harsh light.

He opened his eyes. He was still in his clothes from the day before. His bedside table was littered with empty bottles now. He took a long, stuttering breath, remembering, his knuckles still aching from…

He rolled over again, unable to ignore what he knew still lay slumped on his floor.

Only when he turned, Arthur was there with him, his head resting against the pillows, hair wide as he watched Eames cautiously.

Eames sat up, startled. He looked to the floor. It was vacant, save for the broken vase.  

Arthur sat up as well, shyly massaging his bruised neck as he watched Eames still. “How are you feeling now? Better?”

“What?” Eames reached for him, but Arthur flinched. He pulled him to his chest regardless, feeling that warmth and that beating heart, that life as if nothing had happened. “Oh God, I thought… I thought.”

Arthur pulled him off gently, sighing. “You nearly did. You were pretty damn close.”

“I’m so sorry. Please, whatever I can do, I swear, Arthur, I—”

“You’d said… You loved me.”

“And I do. I love you so much—”

“Then why the hell did you try to smother me to death?”

“It was a mistake. It will never happen again, I swear. I…” He closed his eyes as Arthur hugged him. He was so careful now, wrapping him in his arms. He breathed his scent in deeply.

“I didn’t know you felt so deeply for me before. Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have hated you at all. I would have understood.”

Eames sobbed, cradling Arthur’s head.

“I always… felt the same,” Eames heard him whisper. He sat back to look Arthur in the face. “What? H-how?”

Arthur bit his lip, looking away. “I thought you loved Mal,” he laughed. “I was heartbroken.”

Eames frowned. “But you…” He shook his head in disbelief. I don’t understand.”

Arthur took his face in hand. “Eames, I’d never seen you so distraught before. And you were willing to hurt me to keep me. It was terrifying, but I understand now.”

“I didn’t want to, I swear. You’re too beautiful, too fragile, too—” His heart nearly stopped when he was kissed, deeply, full of a passion that stole his breath.

He fell back against the pillows with the force, his cheeks stroked with Arthur’s thumbs. It was heaven. It was a dream. Surely, it had to be a dream. He’d felt for that pulse, he’d felt Arthur’s life leave him, but he reached for Arthur, here he was, hot and panting above him as he divested them both, his kisses sweet and gentle now.

“Eames, I want you…”

“Please, have me…”

He closed his eyes against Arthur’s kisses, his hands sweeping up skin as soft as silk. Gone were any memories of Arthur naked in the distance, censored by some other person or even the shadows the moon had casted. Here in the light of day, in his bed, in his eyes, before his eyes, Arthur blossomed, opening up to him, yielding his shy and trembling body to him.

They rolled. Arthur clung to him as Eames gripped the sheets under Arthur as he took him hard, rushing and greedy in his need to devour every part of him. Taking Arthur was like nothing he had ever felt. Those long, lean legs wrapping around him, those hands squeezing his shoulders, the depth of his pleasured moans. He could feel Arthur stroking himself quickly, his length hard and wet between them, his hand brushing Eames’ stomach as they moved together…

Arthur slipped in Eames’ discarded shirt, lounging on his rumpled bed with the cup of tea Eames brought him. He looked to the window, lost in thought.

Eames kissed his bare thigh, petting his knee. “What troubles you?”

“I don’t know what to tell Robert.” He huffed, gazing down at his cup. “I should have thought this through a little better, huh?” He shook his head. “We live together, we go to the same classes, we have the same friends… He wanted me to meet his parents, you know? He’ll be furious.”

Eames gripped Arthur’s ankle, stroking it with his thumb. He could feel his past tension resurfacing.

He climbed up the length of Arthur’s body, nosing apart his loose shirt to kiss his stomach and then those lips again. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll go and talk to him.”

“Yeah? Eames, he’s a great guy. You don’t have to be hard with him, just…”

“Don’t worry. It’s my fault, anyways, how things turned out. I ought to fix it.”

Arthur sighed with relief, smiling. “Thank you.”

+

 

He found Robert throwing pebbles into the pond near the orchard. “You’re awfully far of the trail. No wonder Arthur couldn’t find you.”

Robert studied him with suspicion immediately, plucking his cigarette out at the water. “Yes, well,” he drawled with that same irritating accent, “we’re leaving so soon, you know? No telling when Miles will finally want to return from the wilderness. Could be tonight, tomorrow, next week. I figured I ought to enjoy as much of the land as I could.”

Eames hummed, finding an impressively sized rock near the shore as Robert rambled on.

“I hope your father won’t mind me taking a few bottles of that delectable wine back home. My parents would just _die_ if they had real, bonafide French wine in their cellar. It's _so_ top-shelf,” he chuckled and sighed. “Eames?”

Eames bashed him in the back of the head. He had to pull him out from the pond to make sure he was honestly and thoroughly dead before he dumped him back in. “Well, of course, Robert! I’d be delighted to have you send your folks those bottles.” He tossed the rock in after him, along with several more until he was sure the body was weighed down properly.

 

He fell asleep that evening still holding Arthur’s hand, overwhelming afraid that when he’d wake, he’d wake alone, but he was rouse by Arthur’s soft kissing along his naked back, each press of those perfect lips tracing the scratches Arthur’s nails had left from their love making in apology.

+

 

“I don’t think I’m ready to face Robert yet, even now,” Arthur mused one morning in early autumn, in yet another of Eames’ shirts with the man pillowed on his chest. He stroked Eames’ growing beard. “ _Or_ Mal… I think a year off here might be good for me.”

Eames sat up, eyeing him. “What will you do instead? We could buy a boat and sail the Mediterranean for a year. Or we could go to India. I could show you Egypt’s pyramids… damn Stonehenge. Whatever you want.”

Arthur stretched, wrinkling his nose. “Here is just fine. I like your rooms, and this bed, your clothes. Not even the maids pester me here. I get to be all yours without interruption.”

“And be spoiled without end.”

Arthur smiled up at the ceiling. “Precisely…”

Eames chuckled. “Silly boy.”

They both turned towards the door at the sound of knocking? “Mr. Eames.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Say one word about maids,” he muttered, “and one appears.”

“Be nice, boy,” Eames teased, making his way from the bed. He opened the door a sliver. “Yes?”

“Madam Mallorie is here to see you.”

Arthur eased from the bed. “Don’t let her know I’m here,” he whispered, writing something on a slip of paper that he handed to him. “She’ll try to talk me into leaving.”

Eames nodded, dressing quickly as Arthur hid in the bathroom.

She was waiting at the foot of the stairs, as elegant as ever.

“Well isn’t this a surprise. Are your hands well rested enough to slap me around some more, love?”

“Where is Arthur?” She looked past him.

“I don’t know,” he said to the floor, letting her shoulder past him into the room. “We fought the day you left, so he took Robert and followed suit. I haven’t seen him since he left.”

“Well neither has anyone else. Robert too, for that matter. Their letters are always brief, vague. And when I write back, they answer none of my questions. I can’t ever reach them on the phone, when I visit, Arthur isn’t there… It isn’t like he to disappear like this.”

“You said Robert’s gone as well? Then you’re in the wrong place. They’re probably on a safari somewhere in Africa together for all we know. I wasn’t particularly descriptive in my letters when I was abroad, and I certainly failed to check in more than a few times.”

Mallorie shook her head, walking away from him survey the parlors and studies. She glared as she hurried past him up the stairs. She made a beeline right to Arthur’s rooms.

“His things are here.”

Eames shrugged, slipping Arthur’s piece of paper on the letter table near the door when her back was turned. “He always leaves his things here. You of all people know how that boy packs for trips. And I myself never meddle in his things, contrary to whatever it is that you think of me these days.”

She turned to him, her arms crossing. She frowned. “Are you still drinking?”

“No.”

“What’s happened to your face?”

He touched it self-consciously, feeling his beard. “A man’s allowed to alter his appearance every once in awhile.”

“You don’t look like you’re growing it on purpose.” She stepped closer, circling him slowly. “You’ve let yourself go, in more ways than one. Your butler tells me you stay cooped up in your rooms, you forbid the servants from cleaning, and when you do bathe yourself, you do so in guest rooms. Why?”

“Why not?”

Mallorie shrugged, tracing her fingers over Arthur’s satchel. “I was hoping to see your father as well, at least.”

“Sad to say he’s not here either. He’s a busy man.”

She hummed. “From what the servants say, they can’t remember the last time they heard his footsteps in this house, let alone saw him. I find it rather strange that both your father _and_ brother were not there for my wedding—”

“Congratulations, darling.”

“Even though both of them are the last two people on earth I’d expect to have invited and not showed… Are you sure you haven’t see Arthur?”

“If I had, and indeed, when I do, you shall be the first to know.”

She glanced around again, spotting the slip of paper. She nearly pushed him aside to snatch it up. She read it quickly and glared at him. “He wrote to Robert, telling him that he wants to stay here? Where is he then, Eames? Why are you lying to me? What is this?”

“You tell me, Mal.”

“No. If he wrote this and he is truly here, why can’t he tell me himself?” She shouted past him. “Arthur? Are you here?”

“He’s hiding,” Eames said at last.

“From who? From you, Eames?”

“From you, from _Robert_ most certainly. He came to me, in tears one day, out of the blue, and he told me that he wasn’t as ready as he’d thought he was for that sort of relationship, but that Robert was pressuring him and he had nowhere else, and no _one_ else to turn to. He wants to stay the rest of the year here, not with me, but here, in his home, where he can be with his family and think without you or Robert to run his life for him.”

She shook her head. “You’re lying. This isn’t Arthur at all and you know it. Eames, where is he?”

“On a hike. I told you. He left this morning, and he won’t be back until he knows you’ve all gone.”

She balled her fists, staring at him for the longest time until she huffed, looking away to wipe away tears. “Fine. You want to play games now.” She smiled, icy as she nodded. “Fine.” She folded up the slip of the paper and tucked it into her purse. “Well, I had intended to return to the hotel for the night—”

“You’re staying in town?”

“Not far.”

You ought to stay here tonight.”

“Oh I intend to. If I am lucky and pretend hard enough, perhaps I’ll see Arthur at last.”

He glared, but rubbed it away from his face. His smile matched hers. “Perhaps.”

She tilted her hair, frowning at him. “Am I keeping you from something?”

“Nonsense. Come and have tea with me. I insist!”

+

 

His hands shook in his anger as he led her back downstairs to the kitchen, rummaging about the kettle and cups as the servants skinned a lamb on the table in preparation for lunch.

Mallorie stood before the wall of paintings in the parlor, ever patient and a polite as she waited. There was rat poisoning in one of these cupboards. He paused at the thought, realizing what he’d just considered. He had to laugh at himself. Mallorie was no threat to them. She had her life with her husband. Soon enough, he very may never see her again, naturally. “So was Cobb everything you’d hoped he be in bed?” He smirked at the servants who glanced at him in shock.

He heard her laugh softly. “And here I’d been nostalgic for your brand of crass conversation.”

“My apologies, darling. You’re a married woman now. Do you still drive that car?”

“I do…”

“Thank god.” He sliced sliced oranges for them, knowing how fond she was of the fruit. “Does he chauffeur you? Like a dutiful husband?” He paused when she didn’t answer. “Mal?”

He gripped the knife, peering into the parlor only to find that she wasn’t there.

He sighed like a bull, his anger returning as he took to the stairs, knowing well where she’d be. He raced up the rest of the way, his footsteps quieting.

He slammed open his door, startling her from her snooping.

She clutched Arthur’s glasses in her hands, only they were broken as if they’d been trampled. “Why,” she whispered, “do you have these?” Tears streamed down her face. She glanced at his knife. “What have you done, Eames?”

He sighed. “I will not tell you again, Mal. I’ve done nothing. If Arthur doesn’t want to speak to you, you will not force him.”

“Did you hurt him? Eames, tell me.”

“Why would I do such a thing? I love Arthur. You of all people should know that, Mallorie.”

She sobbed when he approached her. She shook her head. “I don’t believe… a _single_ word you've said.”

He put the knife down on his bedside table before opening his arms to her. “You’re shivering and crying for nothing, Mal. Come here. I’m sorry for frightening you, and I know Arthur’s feeling like as much of a fool right now himself, for all our secrecy.”

She held out her arm. “Don’t come near me.”

“Mal, please. Enough of the dramatics.”

Her back touched the bathroom door. She flattened herself against it to keep their distance, even as it shrank. But she stilled, her brow furrowed. She turned towards the door, still watching him as she breathed deeply and choked, paling. “What…” She glanced from him to the open windows before she turned the knob hard and looked in, screaming.

She stumbled back. Eames stumbled back with her, as equally in shock.

Flies and all manner of little creatures flew in and out through the little opened window near the ceiling as others raced back and forth across the floor and the walls. They clung to his shower curtain, others sunbathing on the sink’s rim, and the tub, where Arthur’s body lay curled up in his clothes, rotting, the stench only so muted by the open air.

He pushed her away from him, unbelieving of all he saw. “This is… No. No. I didn’t… He’s alive. He’s here! He was in this room, in my bed! We slept together just this morning! This is impossible!” He clutched his head, falling back against his desk.

Mallorie panted from her spot in the corner, distraught until her eyes met Eames’. She screamed again, hurrying to her feet. She ran.

And Eames chased her, grabbing and dragging her back. He yelled at the confused servants, ordering them to return back down the stairs. She broke free but was trapped in his bedroom again.

“Get away from me! Please!”

He ducked from the books and cups she threw at him. “You don’t understand! I didn’t do this! Arthur is alive! I know he is! Mal, you have to listen to me.”

She pushed past him, knocking him to the floor, but he grabbed her leg, dragging her until they collapsed onto the bed. She hit him blindly, her blouse tearing as she fought to free herself.

He chased her down the stairs, the servants scattering, as Mallorie reached the back door and took off towards the gardens and maze.

He fought to catch his breath, calling out for her. “Mal, please! Talk to me!” He could hear her sobbing behind the thick walls of hedges. He searched through the labyrinth, his heart pounding. He wanted to curl into a ball and disappear from this world that no longer made sense to him, but he had to find her. He had to make sure she knew that Arthur wasn’t dead.

He stumbled over one of her lost shoes at the mouth of a fork, the other discarded not far down the one side. He followed it, listening for her.

She was clutching Arthur’s broken glasses still, trapped at a dead end. She doubled over when she saw him, curling into herself. “Damn you, Eames. You’ll rot in hell forever for this. I promise, I hope you burn.”

“He’s not dead.” He reached for her, enraged, and shook her violently. “Why won’t you believe me, damn it? Arthur’s not dead.”

She screamed for help, biting his hand when he sought to quiet her. They tussled, caught in the thorns and breaking branches he pushed her into the hedge and struck her with his knife.

It sliced his hand and clattered to the grass.

Eames blinked and he was covered in her blood. It dripped from his hand, made his shoes slippery, and soaked the grass from where it was pooling from her body. He collapsed to his knees in front of her, unable to touch her, as if her blood would scald him.

“Why didn’t you believe me? Good God, girl, why? You and I, we...” It didn’t matter now. She was gone, and with her her lies and her trickery.

He hurried through the maze, needing Arthur more than ever now. He couldn’t shake that image, the smell. He needed Arthur to hold him again and feed him his reassurances. He wasn’t die. He was in their room waiting for Eames to return to their little nest and hoard him again.

He paused at the last turn before the long, straight wall to maze’s entrance. Cobb was standing at its mouth, shocked by the blood covering Eames.

He laughed. “You know whose this is, pal. Your beloved Mal. She died in my arms, but this wasn’t the first time,” he teased. “How many little deaths did she have in my bed, so disappointed in you and all your… ‘shortcomings,’ we should say. Best not to speak so explicitly these days. Mal is after all a married woman. Well... _was._ ”

Cobb roared, at last revealing the inner fire within him. Not boring at all, but still not as a skilled with his bare hands as Eames was.

Eames’ hands were throbbing by the time he stepped over Cobb’s battered corpse, the villa a sight for sore eyes and a weary soul. He saw none of the servants who scattered away from him, only the stairs and the truth that would be waiting for him inside.

He staggered into his dressing room, sitting in front of his mirror. He saw only red. He wept into his hands and clutched at his hair, the smell of decay undeniable now.

But Arthur’s hands rubbed circles over his back. He planted a kiss on his neck as he removed Eames’ bloody clothes and sat behind him, his arms circling Eames’ waist.

He sighed, looking up. As large as the mirror was, only Eames’ own reflection looked back at him, even as Arthur rubbed his arms and planted more kisses on his cheek.

Eames sobbed. “Are you… Are you dead, Arthur? Did I kill you?” He clutched Arthur’s hands, kissing them as he sobbed. “What are you, then? Are you a ghost? A… A vision… from my tormented mind? What?”

Arthur turned Eames' face towards him, kissing his lips softly. He smiled. “I’m yours… And yours alone… Forever."

+

++

 

**The End.**

 

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*     *     *

_graphic by_

tamat9

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For questions, inspiration tags, and more for this fic and others, visit grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com


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